


Peeper

by stoprobbers



Category: Doctor Who
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-06-09
Packaged: 2018-02-03 23:57:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1760143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stoprobbers/pseuds/stoprobbers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjoy the show?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Peeper

In the end they go to Barcelona; the city, not the planet. He tries to apologize but she won’t hear it and, instead, pulls him out into the night, her sundress swirling temptingly around her thighs. She catches him staring and grins.  
  
They wander, then eat, then wander some more. When they encounter the garishly lit neon sign her eyes grow wide and she tugs him toward the door. He digs in his heels, his face turning nearly as red as the letters. She is incredulous; in this body and both of his previous she’s never known him to be bashful but here he is, blushing and rubbing the back of his neck so hard she worries he’s going to break the skin. She tries to cajole and then to entice but he won’t budge and so she gives in, kissing him in the middle of the street and allowing herself to be pulled off, down and alley and to an ice cream shop he remembers and hopes is in Pete’s World as well.  
  


***

  
  
It is very, very humid in Barcelona and he makes a beeline for the shower when they get back to the hotel. It’s the middle of the night but she’s hungry again so she calls down for chips and fruit, then adds a pitcher of sangria for good measure, thinking about him the whole time. She wishes he’d let her get him sweatier before he insisted on washing off. Room service says it’ll be a while, they’re not the only ones ordering a late night snack, and when she hangs up the phone she starts stripping off her clothes.  
  
He’s left the door open a crack in his haste, or maybe to let in cool air, and she pauses at the threshold, that neon sign still so fresh in her mind. Slowly, silently, she presses her face to the crack, just wide enough for one of her eyes. The shower is massive, stone and glass, and he’s not got the water hot enough for it to steam too much so she has an unobstructed view of him leaning against the shower wall. His head is thrown back, his eyes closed, the spray hitting his chest and running down from there, down, down, over his flat stomach to his narrow hips, eddying around the jut of his hipbones and pooling where his right hand is gripping his erection. He strokes himself slowly, hand twisting each time he moves up, then smoothing down, a motion she knows very well; a motion she had a hand — as such — in discovering in the first place. His feet are planted wide, legs strong and flexed as he keeps himself upright, knees shaking each time his thumb brushes against that little dense bundling of nerves just under the ridge of the head. His other hand is flexing against the shower wall, the same grasping motions she has felt against her shoulder and the back of her head and all of the heat in the air and the room and her body seems to rush down to her core all at once. She rubs her thighs together, feels her nipples pebble, and runs a hand lightly over her stomach. But she won’t make a sound, won’t stop this moment, so she bites her lip and takes a shuddering breath through her nose, forcing her hand away.  
  
His hand is picking up speed, tugging fast-fast-slow, then letting go entirely to cup his balls before returning to the shaft. His hips shift, wiggle, thrust into his loosening grip as the cords in his neck stand taut and strained; he’s getting close, she knows. He stops holding on with his whole fist, switches to a looser grip, just his thumb and index finger wrapped around his cock and properly  _jerking off_  now, she thinks; no more finesse, just the frantic rubbing of a man right on the razors edge of relief. She can’t help herself; she slips one hand between her thighs and feels the wetness there, spreads it, uses it to tease herself. She’s just been watching but she feels as if she’s on the same edge he is and matches her hands pace to his: fast, wanting, wanton, and wild. A deep groan escapes his throat and she can see the head of his cock flushing, darkening, thickening as the sound ripples through her blood and straight to her cunt and she comes, a shudder and then spasms around nothing, leaving her not satisfied but desperate for more, more, more.  
  
Her eyes have fluttered shut, she realizes, and they snap open just in time to see his entire body arch away from the wall and then the thin white ribbons of his come splatter on his stomach and fist. He holds himself as he comes, no more movement required, just some bare sliver of control in his most uncontrollable moments. He makes another sound, something closer to a whimper, and she wonders if he’s missing the squeeze of her around him as much as she is missing his thickness inside her. His hips pump in her direction a couple more times before he finally sags back and the spray of the shower begins to wash the evidence of this moment away.  
  
When he opens his eyes he’s looking right at her. She’s pushed the door further open, she realizes, and a slice of her naked body is framed for him just as he is for her. She opens her mouth to say something but the wicked grin that spreads across his face stops her.  
  
"Well," he drawls, "Show’s over. You gonna join me, or what?"


End file.
